by Teri Brown
He flashes me a knowing glance. “So that’s why I got the croissant! No, don’t try to deny it.” He holds up a hand to stop my protest. “I knew a young miss wouldn’t go to all this trouble for an old man like myself. He moved in just before you did, but he pretty much keeps to himself and is gone for a good deal of the day.”
“Does he go to work?”
Mr. Darby shrugs. “Not that I know of. He just got out of some fancy school in Europe somewhere.”
Europe. That explains the letter and his formal way of speaking. “Then where does he go all day?”
“To the library to study. He says he can’t think with all my racket going on. Now enough questions. If you want more information, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”
I want to find out more but decide against prying further. Instead, I move to the next topic of interest. “And what would all that noise be? My mother and I have heard you down here banging away.”
“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know! Tell you what, you tell me what you and your ma do with your late-night company and I’ll tell you what I do that’s so loud.”
So Cole didn’t tell him about our séance. Mr. Darby’s blue eyes gleam and I can’t help but smile back at him. “You drive a hard bargain, but it’s a deal.”
He nods and bites into a croissant. “Mmmmm. Would you like one?” he asks, innocence written all over his gnomelike features.
I glare and the corners of his mouth twitch upward.
He hands me a croissant. “Thanks,” I say, equally ungrateful, and receive an actual grin as reward. I bite into the buttery, flaky crust and take a sip of tea. The croissants are the best I’ve ever tasted.
We drink our tea and eat in silence until the last delicious flake is licked from our fingertips.
“Well, at least you know how to eat well,” he commends. “Most women talk, talk, talk all through the meal while a man is trying to enjoy his food.”
“Good food deserves concentration,” I answer solemnly.
He nods. “Very sensible. Now, on to our bargain.”
“What bargain was that?” I tease.
“Cheeky girl. You know very well what bargain. Now tell me, and no more of your stalling.”
“Very well.” I lean forward and drop my voice to a whisper. “We hold séances.”
He smacks the table with his palms. “No.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“I knew it was something like that, the way your mother dresses. So mysterious. A real looker, she is.” He tilts his head to the side. “You’re not so bad looking yourself, though a bit too soon to say for sure.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now tell me something. Are those séances of yours for real, or are there tricks involved?”
My stomach knots and I shake my head, giving him as big a smile as I can muster. “We had a bargain and now it’s your turn.”
“Well, now, I don’t know . . .”
“Mr. Darby! Are you saying you won’t keep your word to a lady?”
“Of course not. I’m not saying that at all. Now you have me all confused. Very well, I’ll tell you.” He draws himself up with pride. “I’m an inventor!”
I sit back in my chair. That isn’t what I was expecting, but I can tell he’s looking for a reaction, so I clap my hands together and try to look properly surprised. “Really? What do you invent?”
Mr. Darby smiles smugly. Evidently, my reaction pleased him. “Now that’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Can’t you show me one thing?”
He considers my request for a moment, then gets up from the table. Taking a square metal box out of a cupboard, he unwraps a long cloth cord and plugs the pronged end into an electrical outlet in the wall. He then cuts a slice of bread and bids me to join him. When I do, he spears the piece of bread with a fork and carefully jostles it into the box. Closing the small door on the side, he looks at me expectantly.
“Er, now what?”
“Now we wait.” He pauses dramatically. “For the bread to toast and then pop up!”
My eyes widen. “Oh my! A pop-up bread toaster. I’ve heard of those.”
His face falls and he heaves a deep sigh. “That’s the problem. Every time I think I have a winner, I find out it’s already been invented. But this one is much improved.”
“I’m sure it is and I’m positive you’ll think of something,” I say to reassure him. “What else have you invented?”
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know! But you’ll have to tell me something first. Aren’t those séances just a hoax?”
His eyes fix on mine, glinting with shrewd curiosity. My first instinct is to lie. The truth might get us arrested. But an image of the planchette moving on its own under my fingers and Walter moving through my body makes me shudder. “Not always,” I say softly.
“So then your mother is more of a magician than a medium?”
I consider that. Though my mother knows a bit of sleight of hand, her abilities are the result of my showmanship. “Not really. She’s more like a really good actress.”
I shift uneasily in my seat. That’s more than I’ve ever told anyone about what my mother and I do. How odd that I should trust a gruff old man with clever blue eyes.
Suddenly a burning smell fills the kitchen and thick black smoke pours from the bread-toasting machine. I back up hastily and Mr. Darby yanks the plug from the wall. Then he grabs a wet towel from the sink and pulls the scorched bread from the machine. I clap my hand over my mouth and he casts me a look as he tosses the burned offering into the sink.
“Don’t you laugh at me, missy!”
I shake my head but don’t dare answer.
“Good God! What have you done this time?”
I jump as Cole rushes through the doorway behind me. He skids to a stop when he spots the machine sitting on the counter. “Oh. Burned toast for breakfast again, I see.” He notices me and nods politely. “If you’ve come to dine, I think you should reconsider.”
His voice is thick with irony and he gives me a smile— a real smile that lights up his whole face and makes him look more like a boy than a schoolteacher. My breath hitches.
“We’ve already had breakfast,” Mr. Darby answers crossly. “I was just showing her my machine.”
“You should be flattered. He doesn’t show his machines to just anyone.”
Cole glances at me and then away. Casually, I move back to the table and brush up against him, sending out a pulse strand as I do so. But before the strand can connect, it’s deflected, like it hit a wall of some kind. I frown. I’ve never felt anything like that before.
“And just who else would I be showing it to?” Mr. Darby asks belligerently.
I edge toward the sitting room, unsettled. “I should be going. My mother will wonder where I’ve gotten to.”
I gather up my things, and Cole takes the basket from me.
“Allow me,” he says politely.
“It’s only upstairs,” I protest.
“I don’t often get to act like a gentleman. Indulge me.” He inclines his head and sounds so formal, it’s hard to believe that he was teasing Mr. Darby just a few minutes ago.
I follow him through the sitting room, Mr. Darby right on our heels. “You come back anytime, girl. I haven’t even shown you my workshop yet.”
I nod. “I will. I’d love that.”
Cole and I walk out into the stairwell. I reach for my basket and he hands it to me with a slight smile that softens his stern lips. I find myself staring at his lips and look quickly away, embarrassed.
“Thank you for coming to visit. Mr. Darby can be a bit crabby, but that’s only a front.”
“I like him,” I say truthfully.
As I stand there, looking into his dark eyes, the strangest feeling comes over me. As if we are somehow connected. The space between us is almost alive with a dawning awareness of the other person. This new sensation is as intriguing as it is alarming and I fight
my temptation to just give in to it.
Swallowing, I turn to go upstairs, but he reaches out and catches my coat. “May I ask you something?”
His voice is casual, so different from his normal, stilted tone that I’m instantly on alert. I bite the inside of my lip and give a slight nod.
“What happened last night—does it happen often?”
His eyes lock onto mine. I feel as if he’s plucking the answer right out of my mind, so I shake my head. “No. No, never.”
He lets go of my arm and I hurry up the stairs on shaking legs.
“Anna!”
I pause halfway to my door and turn.
His face is solemn. “Be careful with that.”
I don’t have to ask what he’s talking about. With another quick nod, I run the rest of the way up the stairs.
I awake the next morning, as relieved by not having another vision as I am disappointed by it. At least with a vision I may get clues as to what’s happening. Or might happen. I rub my temples, confused. I check on my mother, which is becoming sort of a nervous habit, and, of course, she’s fine. After washing up and getting dressed, I hesitate, looking at my shopping basket. I know it’s silly, but I don’t want to leave her alone.
Instead I procrastinate by cleaning the flat until I hear her stirring in her bedroom. I pour her a cup of coffee and take it back to her.
Her eyebrows raise. “What’s the occasion?”
I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “Nothing. Just thought you might like some.”
Her brow furrows. It speaks volumes about our relationship that bringing her coffee when she wakes up is viewed with suspicion.
“What are your plans for the day?” I ask, picking up her red Oriental silk wrap and handing it to her.
“Jacques will be here in a bit. He is taking me shopping and then to lunch with potential clients.”
I frown. I don’t trust Jacques for a moment, but on the other hand, the show is making him money, so surely he wouldn’t hurt my mother, would he? “What clients?”
“I don’t know! I haven’t met them yet.” She laughs, but I sense her exasperation. “Now run me a bath, will you, darling?”
Wisely, I hold my tongue and do as I’m asked. Once she’s safely in the tub I slip on my coat and gloves and pull a dark blue woolen cloche down over my ears. If I lock the door behind me, she should be perfectly safe.
I pick up my shopping basket, but just as I step onto the landing, I hear Mr. Darby’s door opening. Peering down the stairwell, I see Cole’s broad shoulders as he opens the outside door. Silent as a cat, I step back into my doorway. It only takes moments before I decide to follow him and see if he really spends his day at the library.
Setting my basket at the top of the landing, I slip down the stairs and count to five before opening the door and peeking out. I spot him rounding the corner and run to catch up. Darting through the crowded sidewalks, I slow when I’m the perfect following distance behind him. There are enough people on the street that I shouldn’t be too noticeable, as long as he doesn’t head to a quieter area.
I stick to the shadows and am grateful for my dark blue coat and dress. Even the group of girls I’m keeping between myself and Cole don’t know I’m following so close behind them.
Growing up, I learned that collecting information on potential clients was easier if I made myself inconspicuous, and because I’m so small and quiet, I can be darn near invisible when I want to be. I’m thankful Jacques has his lackeys do the client research now. I’m tired of being the lackey myself.
The girls in front of me go into a hat shop and my heart stops in my throat when Cole pauses. Rather than risk it, I dart kitty-corner across the street, keeping one eye on traffic and the other on Cole. I don’t think he’d appreciate being dogged.
I slow down, waiting for him to move on. I’m so busy watching him that I don’t see the woman carrying a bag full of potatoes until it’s too late. Potatoes roll everywhere, and by the time I help her gather them all up, Cole is long gone.
My shoulders slump. I can’t help feeling that Cole isn’t being completely open with me. Could he have something to do with all the odd things that have been happening? The feeling that I was being watched outside the tea shop the other day? My visions? Walter? But how could he? I remember him smiling and teasing Mr. Darby, and I suddenly hope with all my heart that he isn’t somehow linked to my visions.
Turning back toward my own neighborhood, my feet reluctantly take me to the ancient theater I’d been avoiding ever since I spotted the title on the marquee last week.
A group of young boys crowd around the ticket box. After much jostling and stealing of caps, they finally pay for their tickets and disappear through the wide front doors. If I go in, I’ll probably be the only person in there over thirteen. Sunday matinees are the province of the young. I bite my lip, that age-old pain hovering around my heart as I stare at the marquee:
HALDANE OF THE SECRET SERVICE
STARRING HARRY HOUDINI
Mother doesn’t know it, but I’ve been to all his movies. I missed this one the first time it came out and I’m torn, wondering if I should even go inside. For me, watching a Houdini movie is like fouling up a trick onstage: It starts out great, then suddenly it’s not, and you end up with a pit in your stomach, wishing you hadn’t tried it at all. Considering my relationship with Houdini, I should probably just walk away.
But I don’t. I take a deep breath and march up to the glass ticket box. Just as I’m compelled to perform magic, I’m compelled to see Houdini whenever I can.
I give the man behind the glass my dime. He tears a ticket off the roll and hands it to me.
“I thought you were never going to go in,” a familiar voice says from behind me.
I whirl around to find Cole standing close, very close, behind me. “You startled me!” My eyes narrow. Did he know I was following him? He must. He had to backtrack to get to the theater. My cheeks flame. What would he say?
“I’m sorry.” He pays for his ticket and then turns to me. His herringbone overcoat sits well on his broad shoulders, and a Homburg hat is slightly tilted on his head, lending a rakish air to his dignified features. “Do you mind if I accompany you?”
I’ve never shared this part of my life with anyone, but then again, I don’t think Cole knows that Houdini is my father, so it wouldn’t be like sharing. His neck reddens under his collar as he awaits my answer. He’s afraid I’ll say no, I think in surprise. “That would be nice,” I say, and then curse myself for sounding so prim.
He holds the door open for me and we go inside. The theater itself is lovely, though a little worse for wear. The red carpeting is worn in spots, and several lights in the lobby chandelier are missing. I can tell by the decor that it used to be a proper playhouse and has been converted into a movie theater. Usually, I enjoy going to the movies, but today, the combination of seeing Houdini on-screen and proximity to Cole sets my stomach churning, so I decline refreshments.
Our seats are uncomfortable, but sitting so close to Cole, it doesn’t really matter. Boisterous kids in the balcony above hoot and holler while the lower part is almost empty. I try to think of something to say but can’t, so instead I study the other theater patrons. There’s a pair of young women about my age close to the front and a woman holding a baby across the aisle. I glance away and then back, caught by something I don’t understand. The old coat she’s wearing looks like it might have been a man’s, and the blankets swaddling the baby are tattered. But that isn’t what is catching my attention. I’ve seen many poor people in my life, some much worse off than she is.
It’s the pulses of worry and despair coming at me from across the aisle that command my attention. I stare, my heart thudding in my chest. I shut my eyes, but her emotions continue to batter me like breakers against the shore. Why is this happening? I grip the armrests until my fingers hurt. It’s bad enough feeling other people’s emotions when I touch them, but being assaulted by them thro
ugh thin air is unbearable.
Then as suddenly as it began, it stops. I take a deep, shuddering breath and glance at Cole, who seems unaware of my strange attack of anxiety. I look back at the woman, who is rocking the baby in her arms. I feel nothing. Was it my imagination?
Just when the silence between Cole and me becomes unbearable, he says, “So how long have you been in New York?” His voice is strained as if he, too, was having a hard time thinking of something to say.
“For a little over a month. You?”
“About six weeks. But I’ve been in the States for almost three months. I went to Baltimore first.”
“Oh, are you doing the tour?”
“Something like that.”
We lapse back into silence. So much for that topic. We’re saved when the lights go off and the newsreel starts. We watch in quiet as the famous boxer Jack Dempsey participates in an automobile race, one hundred hot-air balloons take off in Brussels, and officials break up an opium ring in Shanghai. When the flickering images of a movie-star dog doing tricks comes on, Cole actually laughs out loud. The sound sends a tingling warmth from my toes to the top of my head. He looks at me, the light from the screen dancing against the darkness of his eyes, and my breath catches in my throat. Once again, I feel that strange awareness that I felt in the stairwell, that warm connection that I’ve only ever sensed with him. For a moment, we’re caught in each other’s gaze and then the organist starts to play. We both jump, and I laugh self-consciously.
Then I turn back to the flickering images and Cole is forgotten as Houdini fills the screen.
The feature is on.
Dread and anticipation battle inside me as the opening credits roll. Watching his movies raises the age-old question in my mind: Is he really my father?
His charisma, alluring and potent, emanates from the screen in waves. The story line and the printed dialogue that goes with it are simple, but I’m not following it. I’m watching the man who may be my father. His hair is wild, thick, and unruly like always. His eyes are fierce, magnetic. It’s easy to believe that he could have the same abilities that I do—his power is palpable. I watch the escapes with a professional eye. Could I do that? The vision of me underwater flashes in front of my eyes and I shiver. Could I break free of something like that? Will I have to?
